


Survive First

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Gen, Spoilers for 4x09, descriptions of injuries, diggle POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5724361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  Dig is standing by his car talking to Lyla when he gets the alert. Picks up right at the end of episode 4x09.</p><p>THANKS:  to fanmommer, darlinginmyway, and callistawolf for reassurance and the title. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survive First

Dig is leaning against his car, grinning absently at the lit Christmas tree and trying to convince Lyla that, yes, Oliver -- Oliver _Queen_ \-- just proposed to Felicity. Gleefully. Publicly. He'd called her immediately, unable to wait to savor her reaction. After all, they've had more than one conversation about the saga of Oliver and Felicity.

"You've gotta be pulling my leg, Johnny," Lyla answers, her tone both hopeful and skeptical. It's kind of her signature emotional stance -- guarded optimism. 

"Lyla, I swear to God, I wouldn't have believed it, either, but I just watched it happen." He shakes his head through his own lingering disbelief. Not only had Oliver proposed, but he'd been _giddy_ to do so. "Turn on the news -- the press was there."

Lyla's laughing, and Dig smiles at the vivid picture his imagination serves up of how beautiful his wife is when she laughs; of course that's when some kind of alarm sounds. 

Loudly. 

Right in his ear.

"Fuck!" he grunts, tearing the phone away to glare at it. He’s never heard that particular klaxon before, and figures it must be one of Felicity’s little “updates” to his phone. All the notification says is _**ALERT: 15th AND UNION**_ in big, red letters. Dig doesn't know exactly what that means, but his gut is telling him it's very, very bad. "Fuck," he repeats, in a totally different tone this time.

He scans the area nearby, but doesn't see Thea or Laurel. Felicity's mother and Lance are canoodling near the tree, and _that_ is something he doesn't need to see ever. "Lyla," he barks, jumping into action. "Something's wrong."

"What do you need, Johnny?" she asks, all calm efficiency, just the way she's always been. The familiarity of her steadiness in the face of the unknown helps keep him on task.

Jerking the door open, Diggle folds himself into the driver's seat of his crossover and fumbles for his keys. He doesn't know what he's going to find, but he knows he's gotta get to 15th & Union as soon as possible.

"I don't know what this alert is, but," he says, peeling out of the parking spot and accelerating towards the road, "it’s gotta be something Felicity built. Check the wires, the police frequencies, for 15th & Union."

"What am I checking for?"

"Damned if I know," Dig answers, but he _does_ know. He knows in the unsettled feeling in his gut; he knows with a sudden, sickening certainty that Oliver and Felicity are in trouble. And he knows it’s bad, because _something_ triggered this alert, but neither of them picked up their phones to call for help. "Shit, Lyla -- try to raise Gary." Gary's driving tonight -- security and chauffeur all in one, hired by Dig himself after extensive research and a thorough (and not entirely legal) background check.

"He's not answering," Lyla reports. Diggle is three blocks away from the alert, engine roaring, making irresponsibly good time through the mostly empty streets. She's still calm, but he can hear the tension in his wife's voice. "Johnny..."

"I know," he grits. Two blocks. 

"I'm calling 911," Lyla decides. He should argue with her, he should tell her she's jumping the gun, that they don't even know what this alert is about. But he grunts his assent, taking a corner so fast the tires screech and lose traction for a moment.

He’s a block away from the alert, and sees... _nothing_. He scans frantically, slowing the vehicle a bit, then squinting at the road when the headlights glint off of a couple dozen shiny -- 

Shell casings.

The intersection is littered with _shell casings_. 

There’s ice in his spine as Diggle rips his gaze from evidence of a sustained attack and searches for his teammates.

And then he can see the limo, a block down, pulled haphazardly across the lane. It looks... the smooth black sides look wrong, warped. And that's all he needs to know that awful, sick feeling in his gut was right. "Oh, _fuck_ me," Dig yells, accelerating faster. "The car's shot up, Lyla. It's bad. Really fucking bad." The windows are shot out, and the body of the car -- there are bulletholes all along the side he can see. 

His fingers clench the steering wheel. For one awful moment, he wants nothing more than to turn around, to drive away, to _never_ see what he's going to find when he reaches the car.

"Leave the line open," Lyla says, and it’s her voice that lets him take an unsteady breath and gather himself. "I'm right here, Johnny."

As he brings his crossover to a shuddering halt, his headlights illuminate -- Oliver. Oliver, sitting in the street, with the slumped figure of Felicity in his arms. Dig says on an exhale, "It's Felicity," and then he’s out of the car and in motion. 

"Oliver!"

The other man turns his head, eyes glazed, mouth slack, blood-covered hands flitting awkwardly over Felicity's body. "John?" he asks, slowly, the slightest hint of a frown on his face.

Dig drops to his knees, the pavement jarring the last of the panic out of him. Now he knows. Now he can do something to fix it. He checks her pulse (too fast, but she's _alive_ ), and her breathing (shallow and labored); he winces at the sight of blood in her mouth. He can’t draw a full breath until he sweeps his palms over her head, confirming for himself there are no gunshots hidden by her hair. 

"Where is she hit?" Dig demands. The entire side of her jacket is covered in blood, and he can't immediately locate an entry wound. "Oliver?"

But Oliver is in shock. He blinks slowly, his arms tightening around her body. "I think-- I think she's hurt, Dig." He turns his gaze back down to the woman in his arms, curling protectively over her, and whispers, "Felicity?"

"Oliver!" Dig snaps, trying to get through Oliver's fugue. "Let me see, Oliver." He moves closer, and the slow warmth surrounding his right knee tells him he's kneeling in blood. _Felicity's_ blood. Fuck, she's losing too much blood. He muscles Oliver upright, giving himself some room to work. Hands shaking with fear and adrenaline, Dig eases her coat open, ignoring the awkward angle of her torso caused by Oliver's cradling grasp on her body. 

For expediency's sake, Dig simply tears a hole in her blouse, blood spattering a little from the soaked fabric. It's hard to see the wound, her skin is stained sticky red, but he finds it -- a cruel, jagged, oblong tear along her ribs. Shallow angle. It got her lung, he thinks immediately. Depending on the angle... " _Fuck_."

"Johnny?" Lyla asks, her voice in his ear tethering him to reality.

"She's hit low between the ribs. Bad angle -- probably at least a lung. It's-- There's a lot of blood. Too much blood," he admits. He yanks at his tie, pulling it loose and then tugging it free. There's not much he can do for her here in the street. She needs surgical intervention sooner than later, because whatever's bleeding doesn't seem to want to stop.

He will _not_ let this woman bleed out.

Oliver is staring down at the blood on her skin with tears in his eyes. "Felicity?"

Wadding up the silk tie, Diggle shoves it hard against Felicity's gunshot wound, and is gratified to hear a little moan of protest as she shifts a little. "Felicity?" Dig says. Loudly. Her brow furrows slightly, but she doesn't respond, doesn't open her eyes. 

"Did she hit her head?" Dig asks.

Oliver blinks. "We... hit the jersey barrier. I don't..."

Dig moves his free hand, smoothing it along her head a second time, feeling for any lumps. He exhales a little when he finds nothing. "Oliver, man, I need you to listen to me. _Oliver_!"

He jerks his gaze up to Dig, and there's a spark of something there -- panic, horror, fear. Dig would prefer the icy calmness that Oliver usually adopts in the middle of a crisis, but he knows this isn't the ruthless Arrow, or the hardened survivor from the island he's dealing with -- this is a man holding the woman he loves as she's bleeding out in his arms. So Dig softens his tone, just a little bit. "Oliver."

There's a definite note of suspicion in Oliver's voice when he says, "Dig?" like the reality of what is happening is starting to set in and he wants Dig to set him straight. His brow furrows, and for the first time when he looks down at Felicity, he seems to understand the blood and the fact that she's not moving. " _John_?"

Dig glances around, listens for sirens, and decides he can get them there faster. And time is of the essence. So he meets Oliver's wild gaze and says, "Oliver, man, you need to help me save her, okay?"

And just like that, Oliver’s hazy disconnection from reality is gone, and he’s nearly hyperventilating, his wide, panicked eyes on Felicity, his hands fumbling to cover the wound, to apply pressure, to _do something_. "Dig," he yells, "Dig, help -- I can't -- She can't--"

"Let's get her in the car," Dig says.

Oliver erupts to his feet, Felicity held securely in his arms. He's not graceful, not at all sure-footed the way he normally is; in fact, he basically staggers to the car. Dig wrenches the door open, and Oliver slides into the backseat, Felicity cradled on his lap. Dig presses the already blood-soaked tie into Oliver's hand. " _Pressure_ ," he orders, then pauses. “Gary?” he asks. He already knows, but he needs confirmation before he can leave the man there.

Oliver’s grimace is answer enough, but he manages, “I’m sorry, Dig.”

“Yeah,” Dig says, swallowing hard as he slams the door closed. "Starling General, right?" he asks Lyla.

"Best trauma center," she confirms. "Ten blocks up, two blocks north. I'll let emergency services know. And, Johnny,” her voice is softer, soothing, “I’ll let the police know about Gary.”

Dig swallows, because he can’t think of a goddamn thing to say in response to this clusterfuck. He's wholly focused on driving, as smoothly and as quickly as possible. He doesn’t -- _didn’t_ know Gary all that well, but the man was dedicated and professional, and he sure as hell didn’t deserve to be gunned down. 

"They opened fire," Oliver says, fiery anger in his voice. "They killed Gary, and we were trapped, and they just kept shooting, so I-- I _left_ her there. I left her uncovered and she got shot. John, _please_." 

But Dig can't argue responsibility when he's still getting them to safety. "Pressure. How's her breathing?"

There's a pause, and then Oliver is shifting, his voice high and thready. "Dig, she's not breathing! She's--"

"Slow down," Dig orders, easing into the turn. "We'll be there in two minutes. Keep pressure on the wound, lean your face close to her, see if you can feel hear her breath."

Lyla's soothing voice in his ear says, "The trauma doctors are at the door waiting for you, Johnny."

“ _John_!” Oliver yells. “She’s not--”

“Check her pulse, Oliver,” Dig orders, easing the gas pedal down just a little more. He glares at the traffic light ahead, just _daring_ it to even try to turn yellow. 

“I don’t-- I can’t tell. I _can’t tell_ ,” Oliver answers, anguished and panicky.

“If you’re not sure, start CPR. Keep pressure on the wound if you can.” A glance in the rearview mirror shows just a portion of Oliver’s face as he leans over her. “You’ve got this, Oliver.”

The hospital is two blocks away, and Dig curses mightily at the red light in their path. “C’mon, c’mon,” he mutters, his fingers gripping the steering wheel with every last bit of his fear and frustration. 

Green. _Go_.

They make it the last two blocks in about thirty seconds, and Diggle is holding down the horn as he turns into the ambulance bay. The back door is wrenched open by the waiting doctors and nurses, but Oliver protests when they start to pull her away. 

“ _Oliver_ ,” Dig shouts, half-turned in his seat to meet his partner’s anguished gaze. “Let them take care of her.” Oliver nods, but immediately pushes himself out of the car to follow. 

“Sir, you can’t leave your car here,” one of the nurses tosses over her shoulder.

“I’ll be right behind you, Oliver,” Dig calls, then leaves the emergency bay in search of the parking lot.

It takes him fifteen minutes to park, find the hospital entrance, and locate the emergency room. The clerk at the desk won’t give him information _or_ access, and Oliver’s nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t answer his phone any of the twelve times Dig tries him.

Diggle’s been pacing the emergency waiting room for at _least_ ten minutes when Oliver stumbles out from the double doors, looking dazed and covered in an impressive amount of blood, a scrub top dangling from one hand. The chatter in the room dampens considerably as almost everyone watches Oliver with curious, sympathetic eyes.

Oliver meets Dig’s gaze and his face crumples.

Diggle shakes his head, because she-- she _can’t_ be--

He moves without thinking about it, one arm around Oliver’s back as he steers them toward a hallway where they can have some semblance of privacy. “Oliver, man, what happened?” he demands, his voice shaky and damp with the tears he’s holding back.

“Her--” Oliver chokes on his words, shakes his head.

“ _Oliver_ ,” Dig says. Pleads. He _needs_ to know that she’s-- that she’s _not_ \--

“Her heart stopped,” Oliver manages, his voice strangled and unsteady, and Dig brings his palms to his face, closing his eyes. Then Oliver continues, “They-- they shocked her, and she--” 

No, no, no, Dig thinks. _This can’t be happening_.

“She’s so pale,” Oliver says. “She didn’t wake up. They told me to wait, that they’d-- She needs surgery.”

Dig lets out a huge, relieved breath, taking a step back to sag against the wall. _Surgery_. She’s alive. “Okay,” he says, leaning forward with his hands on his thighs. “Okay. She’s alive and in surgery. That’s-- That’s good.” He’s still a little unsteady, but he makes himself stand up straight and meet Oliver’s teary gaze. “So we just… have to wait.” 

The sudden rage on Oliver’s face is not encouraging. 

Stepping forward, Diggle places a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “She needs you here, man. You can’t-- You have to be here when she wakes up.”

Oliver’s hands clench into fists. “Darhk,” he says, like that’s an explanation. Or a justification.

Diggle rounds on his friend, tightening his grip on Oliver’s shoulder. “Listen to me: Darhk doesn’t matter right now.” Oliver opens his mouth to interrupt but Dig just raises his voice and keeps talking. “First, you survive. _Then_ you get justice.” His expression hardens as he lets himself imagine what Darhk has coming for _this_. “Or retribution,” he adds. “But the first part is important -- you gotta survive the attack.”

Tears spill down Oliver’s cheeks; he presses his lips together and shakes his head. 

“Oliver,” Dig says, softer now. “She’s alive, and they’re helping her stay that way, okay? But she’s not the only one who needs to make it through the next few hours in one piece.”

“Dig,” Oliver chokes out, “I can’t let him just--”

“You can, and you will,” Diggle interrupts. “Temporarily. For now. Because you and her -- that needs to make it through the night, too. You just agreed you want to marry each other -- sickness and health, good times and bad.” 

Oliver tips his face back, blinking up at the ceiling, breathing carefully through his nose.

Dig knows how hard this is for Oliver -- not only is his first, hard-won instinct to _run_ in the face of pain, but they all _know_ they’re the only real line of defense against Darhk. The SCPD can’t handle Darhk, so if it’s not Team Arrow, it’s no one. Diggle understands Oliver’s instinct to protect -- and, in this case, both men want blood for what’s happened to Felicity.

But Felicity’s the only thing that’s important right now, and Oliver needs to make her his priority. So Dig pushes harder. “You know good and goddamn well that woman would _never_ leave your side if the circumstances were reversed, the way they have been a hundred times.”

“Dig--” 

“No, Oliver, she’s shown you what she needs from you, what she expects from you.” Diggle holds Oliver’s inquisitive gaze. “Every time you woke up patched back together and hurting, she was holding your hand. She was _there_. That’s the only thing you need to be doing tonight -- you hold that girl’s hand when she’s out of surgery; you be there when she wakes up.” 

Oliver drops his chin, lets his eyes drift shut for a long moment, ignores the tears sliding down his cheeks. 

Diggle watches carefully, understanding the war waging inside his friend -- his innate need to help, to fix what’s broken, to use his hard-won skills for _good_ , battling his deep love for Felicity and his need to do whatever he can for her. Sitting and waiting are the last two things Oliver wants to do right now; Diggle knows, because he wants to be out there cracking skulls, too. 

It’s a close call, but when Oliver finally looks up, some of the teeth-grinding tension is gone from his face. “Okay,” he says. “I can-- I’m staying.”

Dig can’t quite hide his sigh of relief. “Good. Felicity needs you here.” He scans Oliver’s frame quickly, grimacing when he sees the blood staining his pants, the cuffs of his jacket, his hands. “Go wash up, man,” Dig orders, jerking his head towards the restroom sign forty feet down the hallway. 

Oliver looks down at the dark blue scrub top in his hand. “Yeah, they-- They gave me this.”

“I’ll--” Diggle stops, swallows hard. “I’ll call Donna and Thea.”

Oliver nods and disappears, and Diggle doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until he pulls out his phone to text Lyla: _She’s in surgery_. 

As it turns out, Diggle only has to call Thea, as Donna arrives in tears with a grim-faced Captain Lance in tow before Oliver reappears. It doesn’t take much longer for Thea and Laurel to join them, and Diggle excuses himself to the bathroom to clean the blood from his clothes and skin the best he can. 

Lyla texts that she’s on the way -- though she’ll be a little while since she’s going to gather a change of clothes for him and Oliver and then drop Sara at her sister’s. But she’ll be by his side for this next part. The waiting. The _vigil_. He gives himself exactly sixty seconds to really _feel_ what’s going on -- the screaming terror that they might lose the best thing that ever happened to Team Arrow. 

Then Diggle splashes cold water on his face and scrubs a rough paper towel over his skin before leaving the bathroom. 

He finds the others sitting in a tearstained, nervous little group in the corner of the waiting room. Thea is holding Laurel’s and Oliver’s hands, while Captain Lance has an arm slung around Donna’s shoulders. Everyone’s eyes are red-rimmed, but only Donna is actively crying. 

Oliver seems to have retreated back into some of that numbness from earlier, staring blankly at the wall. Dig steps closer. “Oliver?”

“What--” Oliver stops, clears his throat. Thea squeezes his hand, but Oliver doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are a little unfocused as he asks Diggle,.“What do we do?”

Diggle pulls two chairs closer and drops into the one across from Oliver. “Now,” he tells his friend gently, “we wait.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> A Note on CPR: I am not certified in CPR, but it seems [current wisdom](http://cpr.heart.org/) agrees that chest compressions are unlikely to harm a patient if you're not sure whether there's a pulse, but please always call emergency services and listen to dispatcher instructions.


End file.
